EASTBROOK

Amara decided two things on the morning she arrived at Eastbrook College. First, her suitcase was heavier than it had any right to be. Second, whoever designed the campus clearly hated freshmen. She stood at the gate, sweat forming at her temples, staring at buildings that looked like they’d been standing since secrets were invented. Students walked past her with purpose—laughing, arguing, existing like they belonged. Amara adjusted her grip on the suitcase and inhaled. New life, she told herself. Don’t embarrass yourself. Five minutes later, she was already late. By the time she found East Hall, her arm hurt, her confidence was gone, and the coffee she’d grabbed in a panic was sloshing dangerously in its cup. “Room 214,” she muttered, scanning the numbers. “Please exist.” She turned the corner too fast. And slammed straight into a human wall. The coffee flew. It landed—perfectly—on a white shirt. Silence. Amara froze. “Oh my God,” she blurted out. “I— I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you, I swear I wasn’t—” She looked up. The boy stared down at his shirt, then at her, then back at the stain, completely calm. Too calm. Like this wasn’t the worst possible way to meet someone. “Wow,” he said slowly. “That’s impressive.” Her heart dropped. “I’ll pay for it. Or— or clean it. Or disappear.” That made him smile. A lazy, irritating smile that told her he knew exactly how good-looking he was. “You always attack strangers with coffee,” he asked, “or am I special?” Annoyance replaced panic instantly. “I said I’m sorry.” “And I said I’m impressed,” he replied. “Most people just say hi.” She frowned. “You’re… not upset?” He shrugged. “It’s just a shirt.” “It’s a white shirt.” “Was,” he corrected. She sighed, already tired. “Look, I’m new here. I had a long morning, and I really don’t have time for jokes.” He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle. “Relax. Eastbrook eats freshmen alive anyway. Coffee’s nothing.” She didn’t like that tone. Too knowing. Too comfortable. “Well,” she said, tightening her grip on the suitcase, “welcome to being rude to strangers. You’re really good at it.” That made him laugh—soft, low, and entirely unnecessary. “Jaylen,” he said. “In case you wanted to apologize properly.” “I didn’t,” Amara replied. “But… Amara.” “Nice meeting you, Amara-who-hates-me-already.” She stepped around him. “Trust me, you earned it.” Jaylen watched her go, amusement still on his face. “See you around,” he called. She didn’t respond. ⸻ Room 214 smelled like fresh paint and independence. Boxes were stacked neatly on one side of the room. A girl with bold eyes, braids, and unmatched confidence sat on the bed scrolling through her phone. “You must be my roommate,” the girl said without looking up. “Please tell me you’re not boring.” Amara dropped her suitcase. “I just assaulted someone with coffee.” The girl’s head snapped up. A grin spread across her face. “Oh, I already like you.” “I’m Amara.” “Zariah,” she said. “Welcome to Eastbrook. Sit. Breathe. Explain.” Amara did. The bump. The spill. The boy. The annoying smile. Zariah’s grin faded just a little. “White shirt?” she asked. “Yes.” “Tall? Calm? Looks like trouble without trying?” Amara hesitated. “Yes… why?” Zariah leaned back slowly. “You met Jaylen Carter.” “That doesn’t mean anything to me.” “It will,” Zariah said. “Everyone here knows Jaylen. Nobody really knows him.” Amara frowned. “He didn’t seem that special. Just rude.” Zariah laughed. “That’s the charm. Or the warning. Depends who you ask.” “So what is he?” Amara asked. “Bad boy? Rich kid? Professional campus menace?” Zariah shrugged. “Mystery. Keeps to himself. Shows up when he wants. Disappears when he wants. Girls swear they’re immune—until they’re not.” Amara crossed her arms. “Good thing I don’t like him.” Zariah smiled knowingly. “That’s how it usually starts.” Amara rolled her eyes. “Trust me. Coffee-boy is not my problem.” Outside, laughter echoed down the hall. Campus life moved on. Amara didn’t know it yet—but Eastbrook had already noticed her.